


Merry Sodding Sevenmas, Sandor Clegane

by AsbestosMouth



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Elf!Sansa, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Gen, It's basically the department store out of Miracle on 34th Street, Lyanna is Lyanna, M/M, Renly and Loras are bastards, Santa!Sandor, Stannis hates the term Santa, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 14:16:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8893870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AsbestosMouth/pseuds/AsbestosMouth
Summary: Barristan Selmy's run off with Ashara Dayne - unfortunately, he's also the Baratheon and Daughter Greatfather Winter, who brings joy and happiness to legions of little girls and boys. Where are they going to find another Greatfather at short notice? Ah. Yes. That's right. Get Beric to bribe the enormous security guard with promises of his not so secret crush as his elf.Not that Sandor likes Sevenmas, children, dressing up, being cheerful and jolly, or any of it. But he does like Sansa. Bugger.





	

* * *

 

 

_ Baratheon & Daughter; _ a rather old-fashioned and exquisitely pristine department store homage to a world that exists only in the sort of Sevenmas films starring small, annoying blond boys that remind Stannis, horrifically, of his eldest nephew.  _ Home Alone _ taught Joffrey far too many ridiculous and dangerous stunts, and he still has a scar on his left shin from that bloody flying steam iron attached to that bloody rope.

 

Shireen loves Sevenmas. The carols. The cakes. The cheer. The getting up at four in the morning to see if Greatfather Winter has left the customary expansive stack of meaningful yet educationally valid presents. 

 

Stannis, who dotes fiercely upon Shireen even though he still cannot quite allow himself to be demonstrable, creates a fairytale whirlwind where Richard Attenborough should, rightly, be Greatfather Winter. Even when his business empire was naught but a mere kernel, he had his store celebrate the season with elan. Panache. Tastefulness. No bloody tinsel.

 

Stannis hates the term, ‘Santa Claus.’ He considers it gauche and modern. In his nostalgic Sevenmas creation, there is no modern. There’s elegance, and carousels, and wreaths made of real boughs. Holly. Mulled wine. Roaring fires and jingling sleighs dashing through the rather disappointing King’s Landing snow.

 

His thoughts, as ever, return to the slight hiccough in his impeccable planning.

 

The crux of their present issue? Their Greatfather Winter. Who has, quite unfortunately for everyone involved, run away with Ashara Dayne of all people and is currently honeymooning on Pyke, of all places and, even more appalling, Barristan forgot to mention any of this to the management at  _ Baratheon and Daughter _ before buggering off.

 

“Can’t Davos do it?” The tall man with the eyepatch and the excellently fitting suit scans a clipboard, a red Biro clutched between his fingers.

 

“No, Davos can’t do it.” Davos only dresses up as Greatfather Winter for Stannis, and the costume isn’t family friend. “He is busy.”

 

Beric looks up, far too perceptive. 

 

“Whatever you are about to say, Dondarrion, I suggest that you remain silent.”

 

“He couldn’t wear the false beard over his, anyway. His beard’s too full, and he’d not trim it-”

 

Stannis bristles. No one suggests cutting his - he mean’s Davos’ - beard for some mere festive frivolity.

 

“So right. Not Davos. Even though he’d be perfect.”

 

Yes. Davos is perfect. Stannis is biased.

 

“What about one of the youngsters?”

 

“Theon Greyjoy’d try and shag the parents again. Jon’s too naturally emo. Robb might work-?”

 

“We’d lose far too much revenue from his department.” Robb lives on women’s clothing, and the sales have risen by sixty percent. The amount of knickers that have been hopefully dropped by lurking females tends towards the ridiculous. “Tormund?” 

 

“Looks great, but the beard is still a problem. I could ask if he’d spray it white, but we’d have parents suing over the marks being left all over the children. Plus, he’s Tormund. I love the bloke, but-” Beric gives his customary close-lipped smile.

 

“He’s Tormund.” Which is a curse and a blessing in one large ginger package. Stannis, like the rest of the staff, has seen Giantsbane naked during his usual drunk Sevenmas party stripper moment, and the package is indeed a) large and b) ginger.

 

“Who else?” Stannis steeples his fingers. When he does that Shireen tells him that he’s basically Mr. Burns.

 

“You won’t let Podrick leave Admin. Drogo doesn’t believe in Sevenmas, and he’s on holiday over it. Jorah’s too hairy. Sam?”

 

“He looks approximately twelve, even with that pathetic excuse for a beard he’s trying to cultivate,” Stannis points out. “Should we try and hire in?”

 

“It’d be exorbitant, Stannis, even if we could find someone. All the professionals are booked months in advance-”

 

A fist hammers upon the door, and a tiny flake or two of plaster drifts to land upon Dondarrion’s expensively woolly shoulders.

 

“Come in.”

 

The man who enters dwarfs everything. 

 

“Fucking cunts have pissed in the fucking fountain. Fuck’s sake. Cleaning’s fucking pissed. Shifting hells, I hate fucking kids.”

 

Stannis merely raises his eyebrows. “Are they dealt with?”

 

Clegane breaks into a singularly unpleasant grin.

 

* * *

 

“Sandy?”

 

“Yeah?” He adjusts the walkie talkie on his hip, glowers down at Beric.

 

“Fancy making a shitload of cash?” He lays a hand on Clegane’s tattooed forearm; surprisingly, for everyone else, Sandor allows this. They’re mates, after all. Him, Tormund, Dondarrion. The Musketeers. Or, as the others refer to them, the oversized enormous bastards.

 

“...how?” He’s been caught before with this. Beric fluttering his eyelashes, offering riches, and then he’s dressed up as the Headless Horseman on Stranger’s Day, or a fucking enormous fertility bunny, or some other shit. Everything, if Dondarrion asks it, has something attached.

 

“Nothing much. It’d be fun.”

 

Hackles rise. 

 

“Your idea of fun is fucked up.”

 

“Oh hush. Be Greatfather Winter, and I’ll make it worth your while.”

 

Clegane stares, crosses his arms, presents this massive slab of flesh and bone that hopefully seems immoveable. Nothing will make him do this. Nothing. For all the gold in the Iron Bank, he will never play the jolly red-cheeked gentleman who, on Sevenmas morn, brings smiles and joy to all the little girls and boys.

 

“I’ll ask Sansa Stark to be your elf.”

 

Cunt.

 

Fuck.

 

Bollocking hells.

 

Sansa fucking Stark in tight tights, and a little dress, and those shoes with curly toes, and elf ears. For a moment he’s in Rivendell, and he’s Aragorn, and she’s Arwen and his Evenstar, and she’s pressing that sacred jewel into his scarred hand and then shagging him senseless against a wall. Because, fuck’s sake. Sansa as an elf.

 

Beric grins.  

 

“I’ll take that as an ‘I’ll think about it?”

 

“Fuck’s sake, Beric!”

 

“Maybe Greatfather Winter will come down Sansa’s chimney this year?” Dondarrion dodges a poorly aimed and thrown packet of salami. The deli counter never has good ammunition, though Clegane’s done some serious damage with a bratwurst before. “Shame he comes but once-”

 

“I hate you.”

 

“I’ll pencil you in then, and get your outfit ready. Thanks, mate. You’re a lifesaver.”

 

* * *

 

The beard itches. The costume itches. His balls need scratching. The hat’s too fucking hot, and they made the facial hair extra fluffy to disguise his scars. They’ve padded his belly, and the wadding keeps slipping so he looks eight months pregnant. 

 

Loras, head of fashion, considers. So does Renly, who has nothing to do with the fucking store, just that he’s Stannis’ little brother, and Loras Tyrell’s his catamite, and he always wanders in like he owns the bastard place.

 

“Babe. Greatfather Winter can’t be seen packing something like that in his trousers.”

 

“Mmm?” Loras, who's been staring at Sandor’s crotch with a dreamy expression, comes back to the room. “I was thinking the trousers could go tighter. Like, a whole lot.”

 

“Dressing Greatfather Winter, not a fetish, babe,” Renly reminds him, smirking at Sandor’s squirming discomfort. Renly Baratheon is a shit. “Though I’ve got to say, Clegane, that I didn’t think security guards were allowed to carry weapons like that.”

 

“Piss off.”

 

Loras circles, like some louche big cat, and adjusts the fit of the jacket.

 

“Ever thought of being gay, Clegane? The amount of arse you’d get would be ridiculous. We’re far more forgiving of faces like yours than women are.” 

 

“Piss. The fuck. Off.” He shifts, narrowly avoiding being impaled with a pin. 

 

“He’s in love with Sansa,” Loras reminds Renly. Since he’s concentrating, he’s slightly less annoying than usual, so Renly’s making up for it in spades.

 

“I love Sansa. Shame her and Willas didn’t work out. How cute would our nephews and nieces have been, babe?”

 

Loras gleams in that sibling mean way of his; all the Tyrells apparently adore each other, but that doesn’t mean they can’t insult the hells out of the entire family. “Shame Oberyn’s obsessed with him, and isn’t fucking anyone else because of it. I mean, sure, Willas is a good looking because, duh, Tyrell, but seriously? He’s totally boring. And! We can’t repeat the threesome now, can we?”

 

“Gods, that threesome. Want a threesome, Clegane? We’ll let you top.” Renly ducks as Sandor flings a pin cushion at him, missing by three feet and taking out a mannequin instead. “I’ll take that as a no, then.”

 

“Just fucking hurry up before I end both of you cunts!” 

 

The itching intensifies.

 

* * *

 

First day of Greatfather Winter coming to  _ Baratheon and Daughter _ , and Sandor gets into the lift to take him down to the main atrium of the store proper. Beric, thankfully, helped with the costuming, since Sandor threatened to report Loras and Renly for workplace harassment. Sure, he wants to punch Dondarrion in his big face, but at least Beric’s not a great big gay slut with a great big gay slut boyfriend. He’s just a great big gay with no boyfriend.

 

Musketeers have each other. Bro code. Tormund always adds ‘no homo’ cheerfully after that.

 

Why are both of his best friends enormous ginger tosspots?

 

“Oh. Sandor. I wasn’t expecting-”

 

Sansa wears stripy red and white tights, and a short green dress, and one of those buckled hats, and latex elf ears. Someone’s dotted her face in freckles, and wired her pigtails so they stand out amusingly from her head. The curly toed shoes make her legs look ridiculously long. If anyone can be sexy wearing what is basically a leprechaun outfit (without the beard, obviously) then it’s her. But, since Sandor’s biased, her in sackcloth and ashes would be indecently gorgeous. Her in nothing at all? Even better.

 

“Selmy’s on honeymoon. Didn’t tell anyone. Fucker.”

 

“Oh.”

 

He’s not really talked to Sansa, much. A ‘hi’ there, a nod here. His is appreciation from afar. Sandor has never been great at approaching anyone, since he’s a reticent and terse bastard at the best of times, and ten million times worse when it’s someone he finds attractive. This means, as Sansa is the most beautiful woman in the entire universe, his uselessness actually breaks the laws of physics whenever she’s around.

 

“You look alright,” he grunts, avoiding looking at himself in the glimmering mirrors that surround them.

 

“The skirt’s a little short.”

 

It is. Not that Sandor complains, but if Sansa’s uncomfortable, then that’s unfair for her.

 

“Loras?”

 

“Loras.” A tiny smile. They’ve rouged circles on her cheeks.

 

“Can stab him with a sharpened candy cane if you want?”

 

“It’s very tempting.”

 

The lift meanders ever downwards. As with the rest of  _ Baratheon and Daughter _ it, too, is rather clunky but charmingly old-fashioned. The interior is mirrored glass, and wooden panelling, and the buttons are inlaid with white Bakelite from when the thing was first made back in the late ‘20s. Speed is never an issue at  _ Baratheon and Daughter _ ; it’s all about the style.

 

The light flickers, as usual.

 

“At least we’re being paid more to do this. And,” Sansa’s eyes brighten, so vividly blue, “I do love Sevenmas. All of it - even the silly sweaters, and the carols being played constantly. What are you doing for the day itself?”

 

Sandor shrugs, which feels odd under the extra wadding Loras has inserted into the costume to conceal his obvious muscularity. “Fuck all. Don’t really celebrate.”

 

She’s polite enough not to mention his family, and Clegane thanks her silently for not asking what everyone else does before putting on a pity party for him being alone. Well, he’s not. He’ll have his mates, and Stranger, and a few bottles of really good booze, and enough food to choke a small horse, a number of box sets, and online streaming. It’ll be a lonely version of Netflix and chill, albeit with more wanking and rum, and less sexual contact with another human.

 

“Since me, Robb, Arya, and Jon are in King’s Landing this year, we’re having our own dinner with friends? I could bring you some food, if you didn’t want to join us? You’re more than welcome to come to our flat, though. If Tormund and Beric want to, as well - I always cook far too much. Arya says I mother everyone.”

 

Shit. Sansa with babies. His babies. The epitome of Yummy Mummy.

 

“Be doing you a favour, then?” Of course. It’s not like she really wants him there, is-?

 

“I’d like you there, if you’d like to come.” Her fake ears twitch as she smiles a little bashfully. 

 

“Uh. If I can make it.”

 

* * *

 

“She asked you round for Sevenmas dinner and you said you’d think about it?!” Tormund, when excited, ends up punctuating wildly. “You have to go, bro!” They’re having a conflab around the back of the butchery unit. Giantsbane dismembers large animals for a living with oddly good cheer. “She asked us!?”

 

“I can’t,” Beric says. He sounds quite careful.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“I might have a date, but it depends on circumstance.”

 

“Like?”

 

“If he’s been bailed from prison.”

 

Both of them stare at Beric, who looks at his hands. 

 

“Fuck’s sake.”

 

“You know I don’t celebrate Sevenmas, Sandor. It just makes sense going somewhere with Thoros and-”

 

“Setting fire to shit before fucking the remaining brains he’s got from his arsonist head?”

 

“You’ve got the weirdest taste in men, bro.” Tormund shakes his head. Normally his luxuriant beard would fly, but he’s wearing a snood for hygiene and health and safety reasons.

 

“We’re meeting up with Mel, and having a fondue and bonfire party,” Beric mutters. “If he’s out of prison.”

 

* * *

 

“Ho ho ho. Merry Sevenmas,” Sandor booms. He tries to go for the intimidation factor, but being trussed up like the last fucking turkey in the shop, in this red velvet shit, while sticky-handed entitled brats tug at his fake beard, means the usual effect doesn’t occur.

 

It’s been three whole weeks of working with Sansa, though. That’s bloody nice. They’re making quite the team, to the point where Stannis Baratheon’s threatening to have them do this next year already. Apparently Selmy’s a good Greatfather, but he doesn’t have the connection with his usual elf.

 

The usual elf is Theon. He spends most of the time shagging bored parents behind the grotto.

 

“And what would you like for Sevenmas, little girl?” It’s a pony. It’s always a pony.

 

“The independence of the North, the death of traitors, and a bear,” replies the short girl. She’s very pale-faced, and wearing black, and for some reason Jorah Mormont keeps lurking worriedly by the grotto entrance.

 

“Lyanna!”

 

“Go away, Uncle. I am conversing with Greatfather Winter.”

 

“For the love of the Gods, Lyanna-”

 

She turns, very small and very focussed, and gives Jorah Mormont a most imperious stare down her ten year old nose. “Traitors do not tell their nieces what to do, Uncle. You will remove yourself from my presence before the wrath of Bear Island comes upon you.”

 

“Have I got to go and get your mother?”

 

“Mother understands.”

 

Jorah turns pale and flees.

 

“Traitor?”

 

“He brings shame upon the name of Mormont, Greatfather Winter.” She’s so solemn and stern. She’s fucking brilliant. “I ask for you to punish the enemies of the North, and the enemies of the Kings of the North, and those who oppose the glory of the North. I also request that the bear be of the black variety. I am yet too small to ride a grizzly, though, perhaps, in six years time when I am sixteen, I would be most thankful to receive one of those.”

 

“Yeah. Right. I’ll see what I can do.”

 

She turns, pauses, looks at him with clear grey eyes. “I am aware that you probably wonder why a child of the Old Gods comes before you, Greatfather Winter. As the heir of Bear Island, it is my duty to be educated, to experience those things which I may not experience if I did not seek them out. My thanks to you, Greatfather Winter, and may the Old Gods watch over you.”

 

With that, Lyanna Mormont bows neatly and removes herself from the grotto.

 

“Holy fucking shit.”

 

“Lady Sansa,” he hears the girl say. “Blessings upon our Kings and Queens in the North.”

 

“Thank you, Lyanna. Send my love to your Mum, please?”

 

His elf comes into the little building, brings down the barrier, changes the sparkly candy cane shaped sign from OPEN to CLOSED.

 

“What the actual fuck?”

 

“Lyanna? She’s always been quite odd.”

 

Sandor drags the beard down so it wraps around his neck like a cowl, scratching frantically at his cheeks. It still bastard itches. 

 

* * *

 

Sevenmas Eve. 

 

Sansa carefully peels off the latex elf ears with a pleased murmur, rubbing lightly at the tips of her own. Bits of glue linger, Sandor aching to carefully remove them with blunt trembling fingers.

 

“It’s over,” she says, rather tired, and her hand goes to rub at the base of her neck. If she asked, Clegane’d massage the tension from her muscles. If she asked. “Thank the Seven it’s over.”

 

It’s over. Fuck the Seven it’s over.

 

No more Sansa in her elf costume. No more snotty brats spreading germs over every surface -  the amount of hand sanitiser they get through is unbelievable. No more little chats in the lift as they come down to the grotto, becoming something more than colleagues and almost, on the threshold, of friends. No more just being near her as she wrangles the kids - she’ll be a bloody brilliant mother one day, will Sansa, even if her pups won’t be half his - and genuinely smiles with her eyes even if she’s worn out, and achey, and wanting the day to just end. Sandor’s had it far easier physically. He’s sat on his Winter throne, and he’s not touched a single child apart from a pat to the head, or a parent-supervised grudging hug. Gone are the days when little ones are deposited on the lap of the Greatfather for photographs.

 

Apart from Stranger, of course, who turned up with a beaming Tormund and a highly amused Beric, wearing a snazzy jersey with holly knitted into it, who got to sit on the red velveteen knee of his Dad/Greatfather Winter and left tiny little black pitbull terrier hairs all over the bloody place.

 

“Sansa!” Tormund waved frantically. Everything he did was slightly manic, and enthusiastic. “We’ve brought Sandor’s dog to see Greatfather Winter!”

 

She crouched, showing off too much thigh for Clegane’s sanity, stroked Stranger’s silky perked ears, rubbed the sleek scarred cheek. He licked her fingers, whipped his tail, gave her the full impact of melting chocolate brown puppy eyes. “Hello Stranger. Sandor has told me a lot about you. Maybe if you like her, you and my girl Lady could get together and have play dates in the park after Sevenmas?”

 

He felt Beric’s smugness from the ten feet separating them. Bastard.

 

“I think Mrs Winter needs to be in the photo.” Dondarrion gave that easy smile of his, all battered and rakish, and Sansa ended up with her arm about Sandor’s shoulders, hip on the arm of the throne, and Stranger with his head tilted to one side as Tormund bounced around to get him to look towards the camera.

 

Not that Sandor’s got the resulting family portrait on his fridge. No. Fuck.

 

He’s in deep.

 

“Sandor?”

 

“Yeah?” Off with the beard. Fuck the beard. No more beard until sodding Baratheon gets them to do it next year. Stannis has been on about changing contracts, all that shit, so they’re written in to be Greatfather and his elf. Bastard. Actually. Fuck all of it. Off off off. He tears away the jacket, strips off the padding, luxuriates on air against his damply sweaty skin. Whatever the hells that suit is made of, it doesn’t encourage wicking of moisture or general comfort whatsoever. Next year he’s holding out for natural fabrics, or at least a workout compression shirt under everything.

 

She’s staring at him being all rank and disgustingly sweaty around the chest, wearing nothing but his tight black undervest, the stupid furry-edged red trousers, the big black boots he provided himself, expression oddly thoughtful.

 

“What?”

 

“Oh. Sorry.” When Sansa blushes, her cheeks turn a delicious sort of dusky pink under the rouge. “I was just. You never said about dinner. Will you come?”

 

Beric’s off with Thoros. Fucking R’hllorites. Tormund’s going to see his two little girls since his ex is talking to him again, and had left the day before, laden with gifts. What’s Sevenmas but another long, boring day in front of his computer or the telly, watching repeated shows he’s seen a dozen times, drinking until he passes out? But then turning up at Sansa’s place? With half her siblings, and their various hangers-on? If Robb’s anywhere, Theon’s not far behind. Jon equals Sam, but they’re good lads for one being emo and one being a fucking bunny rabbit. Arya, who doesn’t work at  _ Baratheon and Daughter _ but teaches martial arts to women at KLU, has a boyfriend who works as an artisan blacksmith or some shit.

 

Him and Sansa.

 

It strikes him, deep in his gut. Alright, he doesn’t know if Theon and Robb are shagging, but Jon and Sam are the sort of sweetly close that signifies Feelings. Arya and Gendry. Yeah. Couple. Him and Sansa. Among all these possible partnerships, being fucking single, like it’s rubbing salt into the scars of his face, and he goes to shake his head until a fingertip touches his hand. She’s warm, and her skin is insanely soft even with that delicacy of a caress.

 

“Please don’t leave me alone with the couples, Sandor?”

 

“Shit. Sansa.”

 

“I love Sevenmas. I really do. I’d really like to share it with you. You can bring Stranger,” and she’s preempted why he’d refuse. Bloody hells. “Lady will love him. He’s such a good boy.” Long eyelashes sweep as she swallows, glances down, takes a breath, gives Sandor this expressive liquid look straight from those glorious blue eyes. “Just like his Dad.”

 

“Calling me a good boy?” He snorts at it, amused, though it pulses his veins, gallops his heart, makes the throbbing of blood through his brain roar in his ears. Sansa Stark, who is bloody lovely, thinks he’s a good boy.

 

“A good man. I think you are, Sandor, even if you are the gruffest, grumpiest, most taciturn Greatfather Winter in Westeros.”

 

“Mind if I kiss you Merry Sevenmas?” Just one kiss, on her cheek, and it’ll be alright. Just wank fodder for the next six months or so.

 

She steps closer, breaking that emotional barrier between them with a curly-toed show. “You may.”

 

Sandor steels himself, leans down the height difference, touches his mouth to her cheekbone. Or, at least, that’s where he planned to aim. Nice, and sensible, and demure, and shit. She moves. Sansa moves her head at the wrong/right time, and her lips are softer than her fingers, and warm, and yield under his mouth. Straight slap-bang on the lips, like. Fuck. Fuck.

 

“Sandor,” she whispers against skin, and by the Gods Sansa’s smiling. Smiling like it’s no matter that some fucking big scarred bastard’s just kissed her on the mouth, and then. Oh Fuck. She kisses him in return with her lovely lovely lips, and her hand cupping his jaw so delicately, and her body flush to his.

 

“Come to dinner? Please? With me?”

 

“Fuck, Sansa. Yes.” It’s just easier to kiss her again than process what’s happening. Again and again, until there is nothing but her breath, her hair, her tiny little noises, her everything.

 

It’s like all of Sandor’s Sevenmasses have come at once.

 

* * *

 


End file.
